The Caspian Gates

by Harry Sidebottom

  ‘Neither with steel nor poison.’ Her voice had been just in control.

  Saurmag had smiled. ‘No poison, no steel. I keep my word: just the Mouth of the Impious. Take them away.’

  Down in the cell, the dark pushed in on Ballista. He tried to control his breathing, drive down his fear. Where was Maximus? What had happened to him? ‘Do you need anything?’ ‘No, I do not.’ Inadequate words, if they were to prove their last. Saurmag had not mentioned the Hibernian. There had been no sight of him. Pythonissa had been dragged off. Ballista did not know where. After she had gone, four Alani had hustled him down to the bottom of her house. He had stumbled along, the picture of dejection – waiting for a chance. They had not bound his hands. The chance had not come. At the end of a rock-cut corridor, the trapdoor had been hauled up. He had been shoved down into this solitary cell. The trapdoor had slammed down. Allfather, he prayed Maximus had got away.

  The Alani had come up through the Caspian Gates. What of Calgacus and the others? The small fortress of Cumania was as near impregnable as any Ballista had seen. But surprise, treachery, could take any place. If they had had time to secure the fort, they had provisions to last for months. But had they had enough warning? Had they let any others take shelter with them? Others who might turn traitor? If they were attacked night and day, how long before exhaustion wore them down?

  Alone in the dark, he thought of his sons, his wife. Perhaps he had been right all those years – take another woman and he would die. The mills of the gods are slow in grinding, but grind fine. From the proverb his thoughts drifted to lines of Euripides:

  Not to your face, no fear, not to any miscreant’s

  Will justice strike the fatal blow; but soft

  And slow of tread, she will, in her own season,

  Stalking the wicked, seize them unawares.

  He refused to give way to self-pity. If nothing else, he might as well die fighting before he let them sew him in the sack.

  There were indistinct noises from above. They resolved themselves into footsteps. A heavy tread coming nearer. More than one man. No, thought Ballista, not like Edessa. The horror of that cell came back to him. A Persian called Vardan and Hamizasp of Iberia: beating him, rolling him over, tugging at his clothes. Only a near miracle – the arrival of the Persian boy, the Zoroastrian mobad called Hormizd – had saved him.

  The footfalls were directly above. Might as well die today without suffering that, better than dying tomorrow afterwards. Ballista tried to get up into a crouch. His legs were dead, arms shaking.

  The light blinded him as the trapdoor was opened. ‘Get him out,’ someone said. He tried to rise. Hands gripped him, hauled him up. He was set on his feet. They were still holding him.

  ‘Hecate, you stink.’ A woman’s voice. Ballista forced his eyes open. It was Pythonissa – and better, much better than that – behind her was Maximus.

  ‘How?’ Ballista was swaying, grinning like an idiot, trying to kiss them both. They were alive – free – they had freed him. Allfather, but this was good.

  ‘Get dressed now,’ She was not grinning. There was a third person, a Suanian warrior. He passed over a bundle of clothes. Ballista started to put on the trousers, tunic, boots, other things; all native costume. He was clumsy with cramp. Maximus helped him.

  ‘I was out looking for a place where a man might have some fun.’ Maximus shook his head sorrowfully. ‘Nothing at all, dullest place I have ever set foot. No bars, no brothels, no baths, not a drink or a girl to be had in the whole fucking place. You have got your arm down the wrong sleeve. Anyway, I was on my way back, all my hopes dashed to the ground, when who should I see but your man Saurmag coming up the road, and not on his own either. So, I ran back, whistled up our faithful messenger, old Kobrias here’ – he nodded to the Suanian – ‘and one of his friends. We went over the back wall as Saurmag and his boys came bursting in the front. Kobrias’s brother lives an alley or two over. He hid us. Gods, will you concentrate – hold your fucking foot still; it is like dressing a child. We got a boy to watch. The lad comes back, tells us Saurmag has just ridden out as if he were late for his own funeral, taken all but ten of his men with him. So we thought we would come back. There you go. Very fetching you look too, a proper barbarous mountaineer.’

  ‘He has a gift for killing,’ Pythonissa said.

  ‘Thank you, Kyria.’ Maximus bowed to her then smiled at Ballista. ‘Your armour and weapons are in the courtyard with the horses.’

  ‘How many?’ Ballista asked.

  ‘He killed five of the ten,’ Pythonissa said. ‘Now we must go. Put the hats on, cover your faces. No talking until we are clear of the village. There are others of my brother’s men here.’

  There were two bodies, much blood, at the end of the corridor. Several more outside.

  In the bone-white moonlight, a warrior and a eunuch held the horses. Ballista, more himself now, wriggled into his mail coat, buckled on the belts that held his weapons. His war gear clinked and glittered reassuringly. Maximus tossed him two more knives. He hid one in each boot.

  ‘Put the hats on,’ Pythonissa hissed.

  Ballista and Maximus did as they were told. ‘Your helmet is in the bed roll on the saddle,’ Maximus whispered. ‘There is food and drink.’

  ‘Enough talk,’ she said.

  Ballista noted with approval the bow case hanging from his saddle.

  They mounted. A woman appeared from nowhere, unbarred the gate of the house. As the six riders went past, she performed proskynesis full length in the dirt. The gate shut quietly as they rode away.

  There was always something strange about riding through a town or village in the dead of night – the flat quality of the light, a stray cat or two where there should be people, a dog barking loud in the stillness – and never more so than when riding through an enemy-held place, when any human encounter most likely would mean discovery and disaster. The priestess of Hecate led the muffled figures down one alley after another, past crossroads haunted by the servants of her infernal deity. The clop of hooves, the creak of leather, the jingle of tack echoing back from the blank walls, the shuttered windows – all inviting anyone awake to wonder who was abroad at such an hour, inviting scrutiny.

  At long, long last, they left the last sleeping houses behind. Relief washed through them all. Even the horses seemed to move more freely. Pythonissa quickened the pace to a round canter. They rode on without speaking: the priestess, her lover, his bodyguard, two warriors and a eunuch – a strange company bound by circumstance. The sounds of their passing floated off up the bare slopes.

  After half an hour or so, Pythonissa reined in. They slid from the saddle, walked next to the horses to let them get their wind back. The night was quiet all around.

  ‘Why are we heading south?’ Ballista asked.

  ‘Saurmag and the Alani have gone to besiege Cumania. Our brother Azo is there.’ She gave a snort of laughter. ‘It seems a rumour had reached my eldest brother that the northern barbarian Ballista had behaved with impropriety towards a member of his family. He is very keen on both family honour and propriety – I think I have been a great trial to him. Yesterday, Azo was on his way to see you. Somehow he slipped past the Alani, and ended up having to take refuge with your men.’

  ‘How many were with him?’

  ‘Only half a dozen.’

  Ballista calculated: Calgacus, Hippothous, Mastabates, the three slaves and young Wulfstan, the Suani Tarchon, joined by seven other Suani – fourteen of fighting age and a boy. The additional numbers meant less danger of the tiny garrison succumbing to fatigue. If the siege were very long, it might put a strain on supplies. More worrying, Ballista’s men were outnumbered. If one of the Suani turned traitor, things would not be good.

  In the gloom, Pythonissa turned a serious face to Ballista. ‘Saurmag has to kill Azo. If he does not then, irrespective of his Alani allies, he will not be king of Suania. With Azo still alive, neither the synedrion nor the rest of the Suan
i will accept him as king.’

  ‘What about your father?’

  ‘He is dead.’

  They walked on in silence until it was time to mount up again.

  ‘If not north to the Caspian Gates, where are we going?’ Ballista asked.

  Pythonissa smiled, spoke with a playful edge. ‘To the low country, so the renowned general Marcus Clodius Ballista can gather troops from the Roman garrison in Colchis. With the hero of Soli at their head, they will win a great victory, drive the nomads back beyond the Gates, kill the patricidal usurper Saurmag, place the rightful heir Azo on the throne of Suania, and in so doing both make the new monarch grateful to his sister and ensure he is a friend of Rome. A happy outcome for everyone, except all those you kill and all those connected to Saurmag.’

  Ballista settled himself in the saddle. He snorted sadly. ‘A good plan for a Greek novel. There are not enough Roman troops in the whole of the Kindly Sea, let alone Colchis.’

  ‘Then we will go to Iberia,’ Pythonissa rallied. ‘Hamazasp will give us troops. He will drive a hard bargain, but I was married to his beloved son.’

  ‘Hamazasp will kill me, unfortunately, not quite as soon as look at me.’ Ballista took her lack of response for agreement. He clicked his tongue and the horse walked on.

  ‘Albania then.’ Pythonissa was full of resource. ‘You said your friend Castricius is at the court there. My mother was Albanian. King Cosis will welcome the chance to acquire influence in Suania.’

  ‘Which is why Hamazasp of Iberia will never let Albanian troops cross his territories to get to Suania.’

  This time Pythonissa had no more ideas. The horses walked on down the track.

  Ballista made up his mind. ‘If we need warriors to defeat Saurmag and his Alani, there is only one place we can raise them – to the south-west of the Caspian Sea in the lands of the Mardi and the Cadusii.’

  Pythonissa looked at him with incomprehension. ‘Their revolt has been crushed by the Sassanid prince Narseh. There is still a Persian army there.’

  ‘Yes.’

  She saw what he meant. ‘They will kill you.’

  ‘They might not.’

  XXVII

  As the dawn chased away the night, they came to another pass – perhaps fifteen miles south of Dikaiosyne, certainly less than twenty. Its native name was unpronounceable by Ballista and Maximus. Rendered into Greek, it was Dareine. They could smell the camp fires a way off, before the smoke was visible in the mist. They halted: six huddled centaurs in the dimness.

  ‘Fuck,’ said Maximus.

  ‘Is there a way round?’ Ballista asked.

  Pythonissa made a negative gesture with a hand. ‘Not unless we go a long way back towards the village.’

  ‘Fuck,’ said Maximus.

  ‘And they will be Saurmag’s men?’ Ballista asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Fuck,’ said Maximus again.

  Ballista looked all around. The bare slopes were grey in the half light. Above, the snow of the peaks was pink with the morning sun, the rocks showing through a deeper red. Resting on them, the sky was blue, but with ugly scrawls of dark cloud which promised foul weather. Down below on the pale track were the six muffled riders, much alike in their cloaks and bulky coats.

  Ballista spoke to Pythonissa. ‘Your two warriors go in front. They must try and talk us through. Maximus and I go next. We may have to cut our way out. If someone goes down, no one can stop.’ He looked over at Maximus and knew the falsity of his words.

  Pythonissa spoke in their own language to the two Suani warriors. Their identical, dark-eyed faces regarded her dispassionately. When she had finished, they moved their horses to the front. She backed her horse next to the eunuch. They all set off at a walk.

  The tide of sunshine was flowing down the western slope. The bottom of the pass was still in shade. Clouds of fresh smoke billowed out from the small camp fire on the side of the track. There were four guards feeding the flames. The smell was aromatic, homely. The other, larger fire was some way off on a shelf to the left. Above it there was just a waver of smoke. It had not been made up for hours. The unreckoned number of men there were not yet stirring. The tethered horses looked down solemnly.

  A challenge was called from ahead. One of Pythonissa’s men answered. The men by the fire were not Alani but Suani. It might help. The travellers walked their horses up to the picket and stopped. The sentinels had spread out; two in the track, one to either side; bows in hand, arrows notched. They kept their distance. There was an exchange of words. By the larger fire, men were getting to their feet.

  Unslinging a goatskin of wine from one of the horns of his saddle, Ballista unstoppered it and took a swig. He used his knees to pace his mount towards the guard off the track on the right. Getting close, he leant down and offered the drink. As the warrior reached for it, Ballista stabbed him in the side of the neck. The dagger went in hard to the hilt. The man dropped the flask and his bow. He did not scream. His hands grabbed Ballista’s forearm. Ballista used his boot to shove him away. The man fell back with a frothy, choking sound.

  Shouts – a prolonged scream. Ballista wheeled his horse. Automatically wiping the blade of his dagger on his thigh, he sheathed it and drew his sword. His hand was sticky with blood. Another of the guards was down, not moving. A third guard was dodging this way and that. Pythonissa’s two Suani were circling him, cutting down with their long swords at his head. The man had his arms up. Blood was running down them. He was screaming. The final guard was running up the slope towards his companions at the larger camp fire. They were snatching up their weapons, throwing saddles on to their horses, untethering them.

  ‘Move!’ Maximus was already a little way down the track. His horse was stamping, throwing its head about at the scent of blood.

  Pythonissa’s mount surged past. Ballista brought his around behind that of her eunuch, slapped the flat of his blade across its rump. The eunuch’s horse leapt forward like a scalded cat. Ballista booted his after it.

  The two Suani were still chopping at the remaining guard. ‘Leave him,’ Ballista shouted as he passed. The two men sawed at their reins. As they came around, an arrow took one in the face. He was knocked sideways in the saddle. His horse shied. The Suanian crashed to the ground. More arrows were slicing down. ‘Leave him,’ Ballista shouted over his shoulder.

  The fallen Suanian was alive. The arrow protruding from his jaw, he was struggling to his feet. His face a mask of blood, he reached for his horse. It skittered back, and bolted after the others. His companion sat in indecision. Arrows fell around him. One thumped into the baggage strapped across the rear of his mount. He kicked his heels, and raced after Ballista.

  The five remaining riders were strung out along the track, the loose horse running with them, threatening mayhem. Maximus slowed, pulled to the side, let Pythonissa and the eunuch overtake him. The Hibernian fell in beside Ballista. Their surviving Suanian was only a dozen lengths behind.

  ‘How many?’ Ballista said above the thunder of hooves.

  ‘Twenty, maybe more.’

  ‘Suani or nomads?’

  ‘Plenty of both.’

  ‘Fuck,’ Ballista said.

  The first few miles were a straight chase. They were in the pass; there was nowhere else to go but down it. They rode as fast as they could. Stones rattled and flicked up from the horses’ feet. Thankfully, the loose horse dropped back. Again and again they forded the stream in a chill spray of their own making. The day was not getting lighter. The clouds were coming down. The pass twisted. On the longer straights they could see the dark mass of their pursuers, a mile or so behind, an amorphous animal set on revenge.

  Pythonissa reined in at the entrance to the pass. They pulled up around her, horses and riders steaming. A steep slope down to a green valley, a river winding through it. ‘The Aragos,’ she said. ‘We follow it.’

  Leaning far back in the saddle, carefully, they negotiated the incline. At the foot, she led them
to the left, downstream. They had covered no great distance when those hunting them appeared at the top. Despite the hunters whooping at the sight of their prey, Ballista called for Pythonissa to slacken the pace. They would draw ahead again as the hunters came down the slope. This was going to be a long chase.

  Some of the hills along the Aragos were timbered, but not enough to offer concealment. The fissures in its flanks were equally unpromising. Of course, they could not be like the two north of Dikaiosyne, Ballista thought bitterly. You could hide any number in them, or in the one they had ridden by between the village and the pass.

  Although, generally, the valley of the Aragos was wide, at times it hemmed in on them. At these places the cliffs were vertical; devoid of vegetation, grooved as if by the chisel of some inexpert giant stonemason. Ballista contemplated making a stand, only to dismiss it as a futile last resort.

  The ceiling of cloud was getting lower, the day darker. The horses were very tired. They rode on at a pushed canter but sitting straight, well back in the saddle.

  When they had not seen or heard those chasing them for some time, Ballista called a halt. No sight of the sun, but he thought it about mid-morning. The mountain horses were tough, but needed spelling. They dismounted, let them drink just a little, led them onward.

  The sound of a horn – echoing through the granite hills, impossible to tell how far – drove them to horseback again. They rode on downriver. The threatened rain still did not fall. Out of the murk, high on a terrace, a work of man suddenly would emerge, each one startling in its incongruity. Here a ruined stone tower, there a shepherd’s hut; never anything that offered them safety.

  When the horses were staggering, they got down again, walked by their heads.

  ‘Have we crossed into the territory of Iberia?’ Ballista asked. ‘Will they not turn back?’